


Silk

by TheGreenMeridian



Series: Battles [4]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Body Worship, Established Relationship, In which Harry has sensitive nipples, M/M, PWP, smut with some softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24065548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: Henry is utterly enamoured with Harry’s chest hair.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Series: Battles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555234
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I did something for these two, but I saw a gif set on tumblr of Harry washing himself and his naked torso was very inspiring.
> 
> Fun fact: Henry is from Hastings, the town I spent my teens/early 20s in, and said netting sheds are still a common hook-up spot for horny teenagers. Albeit against them rather than inside them.
> 
> Thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com

The hair on Harry’s chest is like silk beneath his fingers, and Henry’s wild for it. He loves how dark it is against Harry’s creamy skin, loves the slight swell of his pectorals and the softness of his belly. He’s so different from what Henry’s used to, none of the ropey muscles and scars found on the sorts of men that frequent the molly houses near docks. Nothing like the sailors and coal haulers and rope makers he’s touched since he first found himself hidden in a netting shed with his hand down the trousers of a lad off the fishing boats. No, Harry is slim with little areas of padding to show the less laborious life he’s had. There’s but one callous on him; a lump on the middle finger of his right hand where a pen regularly rests, or a scalpel on occasion. He can feel it against his palm as he holds Harry’s hands above his head with one hand while the other gets lost in that wonderful fur. Hidden within are perfect nipples, not too small and such a dusky shade of pink as to almost be brown. They’re hard before his fingers even reach them and when he brushes over them, first one and then the other, Harry writhes and arches off his bunk.

“Sensitive?” Henry asks with a grin.

Harry nods, or rather he attempts to. With his arms restrained as they are, he has limited movement of his head. Henry lowers his mouth until he hovers right above the left one and lets his breath wash over it, as much a tease for himself as it is for Harry. He’s wanted to feel these little pebbles in his mouth since he first discovered how wonderfully responsive Harry was to touch here, even through the fabric of his shirt. The thought has stayed with him and provided much fodder for fantasies while alone in his hammock at night and remembering how it felt to be within Harry’s body. A month later and the memory is both painfully fresh and in desperate need of refreshing. They’re already playing a dangerous game, having Harry shirtless, and there’ll be no time to take him tonight, but he can certainly make a new memory to sustain them both.

At first, he simply takes it between his lips, without suction or teeth or tongue. It’s just a kiss, really, except he doesn’t draw back. He holds it there and presses his lips together a little firmer, feels out the shape of it, measures it. Harry barely stifles a groan. He draws it a little further into his mouth, sucking ever-so-gently, and Harry spasms. Henry’s never been afraid to take his pleasures where he can find them but every time he’s touched Harry, it’s felt like the most indulgent hedonism; His body and his eagerness and his sensitivity to touch are surely more than any mortal deserves. But somehow, God knows why, Harry has chosen him to be the one allowed to partake of this feast for the senses, and Henry will not squander the privilege. He begins gently suckling his prize, flicking at it with his tongue and scraping it between his teeth with barest pressure, all the while petting Harry’s chest with the hand not engaged in restraining him. He has to lean more of his weight on Harry to stop him wriggling off the bed in his delight but it only seems to inflame him further, as Harry spreads his legs wantonly and thrusts hard into his thigh. 

“Not yet, Harry,” he whispers with the nipple resting between his lips. “Just hold on a little longer for me.”

Harry hisses as Henry quickly sucks it back into his mouth, barely stifles a yelp against his own bicep as Henry’s free hand drifts over to the neglected right nipple and rolls it between thumb and forefinger. “Henry, I can’t take it, it’s too much”. His voice is quavering, on the verge of becoming a full-blown sob. “Touch me, please, I’m so... it...”  
He trails off into a whine that oozes desperation, and an actual whimper follows when he attempts to push his prick into Henry’s thigh and finds it moved out of reach. 

Henry’s own prick aches to be touched too, full and heavy and dribbling so much into his smalls that he’s certain to have a stain to take care of before he leaves, but he can ignore it. Just about. Though, the way Harry’s nipple feels against his tongue is wearing against his patience. It’s an endurance test for them both, now. He’s obviously in a better position to decide when to end this wonderful torture but if Harry becomes completely incoherent, he will of course relent. But that hasn’t quite happened yet, so he releases the surely tender peak from his mouth and leans to take the other. Harry squirms and shudders, curses, rolls his hips, seems to try to pull away briefly before arching into it, then curling in on himself again to escape. His breathing is a mess of pants and catches, hyperventilation and held breath. His legs kick uselessly where they lay trapped beneath Henry’s thigh, which remains out of reach for Harry to rut against. This nipple he treats more harshly, nipping at it, holding it firm between his teeth and sucking hard. It swells even more against his tongue, tastes of the sweat that’s pouring from Harry even in such frigid temperatures. 

“Think I could bring you off like this?” 

“I... oh please, please, I need to finish, please, it hurts!”

Reluctantly, Henry releases the nipple from his lips and frees Harry’s hands. “Keep them there. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Just hold on a little longer for me.”

Trembling and clenching his fists, Harry nonetheless obeys. Henry moves to kneel between his legs and runs his hands up the outside of Harry’s thighs and, careful not to drift too close to where Harry really wants his touch, down the insides of the until he reaches Harry’s knees. He can see the hard line of Harry’s prick in his trousers, the wetness leaking through at the tip. He lets himself imagine taking Harry like this, Harry’s legs around his waist or caught in the crooks of his elbows, watching Harry’s handsome face twist and scrunch as he pushes into him. Watching Harry’s elegant prick bounce against the curve of his belly with each thrust. One day. One day he’ll have him like that, and he’ll have Harry ride him too, and let Harry take him over the bunk or against the wall or whatever else he desires. Myriad ways to please each other, and Henry wants to experience it all, over and over, for as long as Harry will let him.

Again he changes position, this time pulling Harry’s legs together and straddling his thighs. He unbuttons Harry’s trousers, tugs them down as far as they’ll go, does the same to his smalls until Harry’s prick is free and resting heavy against his stomach and his plump stones are bare to the cool air. They’re pulled up so tight against his shaft that Henry understands why Harry was complaining of pain, and the tip of him is such a dark and angry red where it erupts from an almost entirely withdrawn foreskin. 

“Christ, look at you. You’re about to explode, aren’t you?”

Harry nods and bites his lip. “I’m so close, Henry, please, just... anything, I need to finish!”

As if to prove the point, Harry’s prick twitches and a burst of wetness floods out of it. But Henry’s not quite ready to bring him there yet. Instead, he rubs his thumb up the length of the seam on Harry’s sack and watches the skin shift and contract impossibly further. Harry’s hairy here too, not as soft as on his chest but softer than most men. He rakes his fingers through it, a slight scrape of nails that has Harry gasping for air and biting his arm, and decides finally to take mercy on him. He wraps a large hand around him and strokes slowly, keeping his grip tight. It’s made easy by the way Harry’s leaking for him, new beads of it appearing on every upstroke, like he’s milking it out of him. 

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop, please don’t stop,” Harry pants. “Love how big your hands are, God, please, you feel... oh God, I can’t... I’m almost... Henry!”

His name devolves into a sob on Harry’s lips as he lets go, but it’s only to free himself from the constraints of his own trousers. He leans forward and supports himself with a hand beside Harry’s head, takes them both in hand, and moans his relief at his own touch into Harry’s mouth. He pumps them together, and it’s slick and hot and so bloody good he thinks he might die. It’s a race to completion now, he couldn’t hold back if he tried and Harry’s whole body is shaking with how close to the precipice he must be. Still, he keeps his movements slow, keeps his grip tight, keeps his tongue tangled with Harry’s, and doesn’t stop when he feels Harry’s hands leave where they’re supposed to be. One takes up a fistful of his hair and the other squeezes his arse, and God, it’s so amazing to be touched by those hands. He wants them everywhere, wants to feel Harry’s long fingers exploring his body, wants to feel Harry’s smooth skin gliding over his thighs and his chest and his back.

“Close,” he grunts, feeling it building. “Want to finish on you.”

“Yes, do it, do it Henry,” Harry replies, voice made more beautiful by breathlessness and strain.

He hurriedly sits up and watches Harry’s face contorted in pleasure, looks down at where they both lay in his hand. Just when he thinks he’s going to get there before Harry, he sees him arch and hears the moan catch in his chest, Harry’s prick throbbing against his own as it spurts hard between them, spraying over his chest and looking utterly debauched. Spurred on by the knowledge that he’s brought this beautiful creature to completion once again, his own end comes rapidly and he too is coating Harry’s chest with his essence, he too is struggling to breathe as the pleasure rolls through him and leaves him dumb.

It’s effort to force his eyes open again, but worth it when he gets his first proper look at Harry painted with the evidence of their lovemaking. One of them has left a streak of it over his left nipple, and there’s some in his shallow belly button too. He’s a mess. He’s a beautiful, wonderful mess. His plump lips are red, swollen, parted slightly as he catches his breath. When he looks down at himself, he flushes pink and laughs, such a light and free sound that Henry feels a grin splitting his own face in response.

“My God, look at the state of me!”

An offer to fetch a cloth is on the tip of his tongue but inspiration strikes, and he dips his head and licks Harry’s nipple clean in one swipe of his tongue. Harry stifles a yelp with clenched lips.

“I’d love to use that box of yours to take an image of you like this,” he says, trailing a finger through the fluid. On impulse, he lifts the finger to Harry’s mouth and drags it over his lower lip. It glistens with their combined leavings and he kisses it clean again, careful not to let his still clothed torso come into contact with Harry’s bare and sticky one. If they were both naked, he wouldn’t mind. He’d press himself to Harry and feel it all between them, roll around with him and relish the dirtiness. When he pulls away, Harry looks dazed and his eyes shine with affection. He’s so beautiful, Henry thinks, and he says so and enjoys the smile it gets him.

“I know I should clean up but I find myself rather enjoying this.”

“Mmm. I’d keep you like this, if I could. Always naked, always messy. Not that you don’t look lovely in clothes.”

“I’d have you the very same way, too.” Harry laughs again, tilting his head back and baring his throat. “Lord, it wasn’t that long ago that I was hardly able to touch myself without guilt, and now I’m lying here covered in semen and dreaming of spending all my days putting myself in the same way. Whatever have you done to me Henry?”

“Not nearly as much as I’ve imagined.” They laugh like fools and it’s only an awareness of his weight that makes him willing to dismount from Harry’s legs. When Harry tries to sit up, he pushes him back down with a hand to his chest. “Stay there, I’ll fix you up.”

Harry lounges back with his hands folded behind his head, and his prick slowly softening among the hair that surrounds it. It’s difficult not to just stand and stare but Henry manages to avoid temptation (a rare thing when it comes to Harry) and turns to the washbasin to wet a cloth. The water’s cold as he cleans his hands and makes him hiss as he cleans his prick before tucking it away. He dips the cloth again, wrings it out, and turns back to Harry. The first sweep of it over Harry’s chest makes him seize up and gasp, the frigid water must be shocking on his heated skin and his nipples look harder than ever. As he wipes him clean, he takes each nipple in his mouth in turn, lathing them with his tongue to give them warmth and smiling at the way Harry squirms. He does the same to Harry’s prick when he’s done cleaning that, and it swells with impressive rapidity given what they’ve just shared. But he needs to go soon, and he’d like to spend what time they have left holding each other, so he releases it and pulls Harry’s trousers back up before sliding into the bunk beside him and pulling the blanket up over them both. He rests his head on Harry’s chest and enjoys the soft hair on his cheek, and wonders how the scratch of his whiskers must feel against Harry’s breast. Harry strokes his head and plays with his hair, humming in satisfaction.

“As much I enjoy our more carnal activities, I must admit to this being what I’ve most desired while we’ve been apart,” Harry says softly, taking his hand. “The notes you’ve been giving me have been wonderful, but no substitute for your presence.”

Henry smiles and closes his eyes. He’s been posting notes under Harry’s door for a month, at first just little things describing how lovely he looked that day. Then Henry’s mood had plummeted without warning and he’d written something longer, pouring his emotions out onto the page and hoping that Harry would understand. He’d felt like a fool the moment he’d pushed it beneath the door, but the next day Harry had slipped a reply into his hand as they passed each other and any fears he’d had that Harry would be repulsed by his brokenness were dashed instantly. After that, the notes became more and more personal, and as close to daily as they could manage. The intimacy between them had grown beyond anything Henry had ever known, and all the uncertainty and nervousness between them had chipped away and left him able to dream of a future on all but his darkest days.

“I meant every word,” Henry says quietly, squeezing Harry’s hand. “I’m mad about you, Harry.”

“I’m mad about you, too. My darling Henry.”

He sits up and looks down at Harry’s face, warmth and affection tucked in the crinkled skin around his eyes and the honest smile on his lips. It’s almost a shame to kiss him, but not so much that Henry won’t do it anyway. It kills him that he has to leave soon, it’s agonising to think of sleeping in his hammock after this, but they’ll have this again, and with less of a wait. He’ll make certain of it.


End file.
